Any thing round the corner can stir up memories, you know that? This one's a very old one. Retrieved it from a musty crevice of my thoughts. It concerns the kids, I think. The one's who had to slide down the hills because they were always in a hurry. They wore frocks, you know that. Plain ones though so they would'nt have to worry about the lace. Their irritant ways finally got to the slimy Nakz . So this memory has stirred another and impelled another charactar into the foray, you realise? Nakz, of course, never confessed to witnessing the death of little Rum. Why should he? The kids had broken the statue of Tycho Brahe he worshipped. Science truly has no laws. If Rum died for an experiment it would have been noble. But she died for pleasure. This is not noble its pleasurable. But this thought refuses to awaken memories of the shrieks and cries, of stories that the hills were now haunted. Some memories just fade away. They're not important enough. Like those of Nakz being hanged like a criminal. The important one's stay on. Like those of Nakz's insolece at having called the death a pleasure as it was summoned for pleasure - simple laws of logic that cannot be tampered with.
Ah, was it the straight logic of time that triggered the first memory? The one round the corner?

REALITY

Beyond the horizon, far away,
Eyes screwed up against the harsh ray.
I stare with the hope of sighting
Reality in its glowing, shining
Attire.
I know its there somewhere
Languishing in destitution.

Ah, me! Reality is all I ask-
Stark, cruel, blatent, anything
But please, discard the mask.
The sea of faces around
Means nothing,
Masked with the same mask, they abound
Like maggots upon dead flesh, they infect
The world.

Every sunset, I search
With the naïve belief that it must lurk
Somewhere beyond the horizon-
The reality that must not reek
Of this world’s fallacies.

Then I see it,
Just after sunset, one clear ray
That must stay
To show me reality,
That which I must make.
Quick, and before day break.

THE VOICES IN THE WIND

The voices in the wind
Grow louder,
Whistle past,
Circle you,
Encompass you,
Until they seem like
Voices in your own head.

They whisper at first,
Grow stronger and speak up,
And before you know it,
They’re shouting at you,
Ruling you.

Its time to awaken
And wash the noise away.
Herculean effort for those
Grown accustomed to
Playing by the rules.
Once cleansed,
The arena clears
And the game brightens.
Every move, an idea of yours
Every fall, a consequence of it
But the goal scored smells of you
Fragrance of your sweat
Shimmer of your thought.

The voices in the wind
rustle past – you’re unscathed.
Ah me, this is a real game.

Conception

Vacuum is an illusory concept. One thing gives rise to the other in perfect cyclic collusion. This realization dawned on me one sulty evening while I was trying to injest physics with the sole object of retrieving it at a later date when I had to prove my knowledge to an examiner. This is reality. Of course, writers try their best to escape it by fictionalising. But real fiction is a realm of vacuum.....ah, an illusory concept. Every fictional work steals from reality. Every writer is a kleptomaniac. We merely hide behind the armour of creativity.
The reason this blog was concieved at all was to give the teeming masses of the literate race, a chance to gaze at the chinks in that ornamented armour. These are not the glory days. Besideds glory in itself is subjective. People of my ilk glorify the chinks.